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Rated: E · Poetry · Political · #1667576
A sonnet about the national debt.
Atlas has placed his burden upon me,
because sweet summer's gifts cannot be.
Even the ripest flowers are to me dull,
whilst I bear the weight of all.

I am not the philanthropic Hercules,
'twas not received through a Titan's trickeries.
I cannot escape the wrath,
of worrying on Earth's behalf.

Not even the Framers could design,
a freedom from debt so unbenign.
But who am I to share,
what the Stars and Stripes must bear?

So, America, what shall we do?
This burden is growing upon you, too.
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